There's many a man who rides today
In the lonely, far out-back;
There's many a man who makes his way
On a dusty bushland track;
When grandma wished to keep her fruit
Her apples she would take
And put them on a bed of straw
At rest, but wide awake;
She danced thro' life as light as thistledown,
The grace of Columbine, charm of Pierette,
These, and that blithesome quality of thistledown,
With memory of her linger by us yet.
Up and down the roads they go
Vale to hill, and hill to vale
Leading on to Omeo
Over many an olden trail
The bad boy of Europe,
He stands in dire disgrace,
Crying too loud his innocence
While guilt grins from his face.
Side by side near the road they stand
Like grave old men grown wise with years,
Veterans twain in this forest land,
Marching together, hand to hand,
He was lyin' on his bunk,
In the hut behind the mill,
Ravin' like a man wild drunk,
Never silent, never still,
Joseph Jones and Peter Dawking
Strove in an election fight;
And you'd think, to hear them talking,
Each upheld the people's right.
The pale young man he comes to me,
An' chats me good an' fair;
'The langwidge that you use,' ses he,
'Pollutes the good, clean air.
He was obviously English, in his Harris tweeds and stockings.
And his accent was of Oxford, and his swagger and his style
Seemed to hint at halls baronial. He despised the 'demned Colonial';
But he praised the things of England with a large and toothful smile.